by James Ellroy
The limo pulled away. The white napkins seeped to pure red. Beth and Tommy got out at the Roosevelt. Tommy fumbled at his hand. Beth whispered this astonishing thing.
She said, “I know, Dad.”
They got out. Beth steered Tommy toward Grauman’s Chinese. Dudley shut his eyes and went someplace. He knew he was moving. His hand throbbed. He smelled Bette’s smoke.
The limo moved. A wheel hum settled him. Dudley Liam Smith—you’re someplace. That’s Her smoke.
Conquistadora.
Smoke, no smoke. She’s there, she’s gone.
The limo ran east on Sunset. His lap was blood-soaked. The seat cushions were slick.
He tapped the partition. He said, “Roxbury and Elevado, please.”
It took five minutes. The house was lit up bright. He heard Fifth Column music. Atonal subversion. Dissonant dissidence.
He threw a C-note at the driver and weaved to the porch. He got the bell with his elbow. His hand leaked blood and throbbed.
She opened the door. The Red Empress. Perdition, catch my soul.
She smiled.
She said, “Really, you?”
8:11 p.m.
Yard work. Night work, by searchlight. Dudley’s graph to Scotty’s snitch sheet to Here.
Ashida carried a knapsack and lantern. It was confirmation work and last good-byes. He walked the ground between The House and the parkway. He’d bottled four soil samples so far.
Two stunk of shrimp oil. It confirmed the graph and snitch sheet.
Dudley trekked this path last Friday. Dudley spun theories.
Preston Exley and Pierce Patchett were land czars. Dudley’s resultant surmise:
They buy land and destroy its crop-raising potential. They build parkway ramps and commercial structures right Here.
He’d been out all day. Confirmations, good-byes.
He drove to the Valley. He went by four wetback-staffed farms. Slave crews picked diseased-looking crops.
He bottled four soil samples. They all contained shrimp oil. He went by three all-Japanese farms. The crops there looked healthy. He bottled soil samples. There was no shrimp-oil scent.
It confirmed Dudley’s theory. Destroy crops. Build internment centers. Usurp the all-Japanese farms. Build internment centers There.
He left the Valley and drove to Kwan’s. He worked the death car and got An Idea. He clocked out and drove to the Bureau.
Dudley neglected a follow-up. It did not appear on his graph.
Check the reverse directories. The Watanabe house was one prospective ramp and land site. Dudley surmised other ramp and land sites. Dudley did not follow up.
Other houses had been bought. That was common case knowledge. Buzz Meeks tracked sales to Glassell Park and South Pasadena. South Pasadena was on the parkway. Glassell Park was close but not on. Glassell Park houses were valuable but not essential. Houses right by ramp sites were pure gelt.
He hit the Bureau. He shagged the Central Reverse Book. He worked the street-address and house owners’ index. The Watanabes were the only Japanese in Highland Park. A few Japanese lived in South Pasadena.
He found three. Nagoya, Yoshimura, Kondo—all on the parkway.
Lincoln Heights ran parkway-parallel. It began just north of Chinatown and continued two miles up. A drainage creek nixed eastside-flush homes. Behind the creek and still close? Let’s check right There.
He found three more. Takahama, Miyamo, Hatsuma. All close to the creek.
He drove by all six houses. All six were parkway-flush or creekflush. He walked around the exteriors. All six houses had been cleaned out.
Dudley got most of it. He got the rest.
Who is the white man in the purple sweater? We both want to know.
Ashida walked up to the back door. He let himself in. He turned on the lights and strolled. Let’s say farewell to The House.
It was still intact-furnished. The check-in log was still there.
He skimmed through. The entries ran from 12/7 to 12/19. He’d logged in fourteen times. Dudley checked in twelve times.
He checked the check boxes. Dust all touch surfaces—check. Dust all grab surfaces—check. Itemize the kitchen. Itemize the bedrooms. Itemize the living room.
Latent-print boxes. Inventory boxes. Empty the drain grates. Test all solvents. Print-dust all glassware. Carbon sheets by the work log. Everything in The House, itemized.
He went down the check boxes. He recognized his own check marks. Forty-two separate boxes checked, all the way to—
“Master bedroom closet/victims’ clothing (laundry marks, moneys, note slips, etc.).”
Box no. 43—un-checked.
Oversight. It happened. Shitwork accumulated. Cases grew cold.
Box 43. Check it now. Formalize this farewell.
Ashida walked upstairs. Box 43 was the toss-the-pockets step. It was often overlooked. The victims’ death garb had been checked.
He walked into the bedroom. He opened the closet. Aya left three smocks behind. There were no toss pockets sewn on or in. Ryoshi left two sports coats—blue serge, gray herringbone.
Four pairs of shoes. Neckties on a hook. Belts on a wall peg.
Ashida went through the blue serge and got zero. Ashida patted the herringbone breast pocket and felt a bulge.
He reached in and removed it. It was a pair of men’s socks, turned inside out.
Tan, cable-knit, cashmere. Sized for a small-footed man. Maroon stains on the soles. Congealed matter—inside and out.
Men’s hosiery. Expensive—and small. Ryoshi and Johnny Watanabe had large feet.
Ashida touched the stains. Ashida smelled them. They were dried blood.
The killer walked the house with his shoes off. The killer stepped in blood. The killer panicked and got rid of his socks.
No. That was wrong. That didn’t fit. His killer would not do that.
Ashida thought it through. Ashida worked backward. The blood-dotted glass shards—12/7/41.
The Watanabes oil-doused their feet. They were soil contaminators. They sprinkled the shards on their feet. It aerated the ground. The Watanabes had heavily callused feet. Glass shards on their feet would not produce this much blood. These were men’s socks. They wouldn’t fit Ryoshi or Johnny. They might fit Aya and/or Nancy.
Ashida ran downstairs. Ashida read every carbon sheet. Every item of clothing in the house had been logged. There were no tan cashmere socks. There were no tan socks or cashmere socks—male/female, over and out.
He went out the front door. He got his car and drove to the morgue. He ran inside. An attendant buttonholed him. He said something about the crematorium.
Ashida quick-walked there. Nort was stoking an incinerator. Four sheet-covered stiffs were laid out on gurneys. The sheets were solvent-soaked and prepped to ignite.
“Jesus, you’ve got timing. Did you come to say good-bye?”
“How badly have they decomposed?”
Nort shook his head. “You’ve got something, son. Tell me what it is before they go.”
Ashida tossed him the socks. “I found them at the house. They weren’t itemized, and they’re too small and too expensive for Ryoshi and Johnny. Look at those bloodstains. You can’t attribute them to glass shards and shrimp oil on heavily callused feet.”
Nort nodded. Ashida caught The Smell. They’d decomped past their use date. Their flesh was off the bone.
He pulled up all four sheets. Their feet were still intact. Nort held the socks up to them.
They were far too small for Ryoshi and Johnny. They were too small for Aya and Nancy. The Cashmere Sock Man had tiny feet.
A microscope was bolted to a workbench. A stack of files sat next to it. Nort ripped off a sock swatch and clamped it under the slide.
He dialed in. He looked down. He plucked a file and consulted an autopsy sheet. He looked back and forth six times. He wheeled and grinned.
“He stepped in visceral blood. It was Ryoshi’s. He’d had a recent intestinal
infection. There’s leukocytes all through that stain.”
Who is the white man in the—
Nort said, “Werewolves don’t have small feet. Not that I didn’t know it was a frame.”
The incinerator kicked on. Ashida felt a big blast of heat.
He cranked up the gurneys and pushed them to the edge. He tipped the bodies into the flames.
Nort said, “Sayonara, folks. I wish we’d done better by you.”
10:39 p.m.
I felt ridiculous.
I stood in front of the Roosevelt Hotel, across from the courtyard of Grauman’s Chinese. I did not look like a whore. I looked like a prairie girl who’d misjudged the local climate.
My dress was winter-weight, pleated, and fell below the knee; the matching jacket fit loosely. The red silk blouse showed scant cleavage. My mink coat was too much for L.A. at Christmas. A mothball scent made me sneeze.
Elmer, Brenda and Bill Parker were up in suite 813. They were stationed behind a wall peek. A tripod-rigged camera pointed into the living room. The room was microphone-fitted. Elmer and Brenda knew Fletch B.’s “quirk” and assured me that this was strictly a living room deal.
Parker appeared to be off the sauce. He issued abrupt orders and comported himself with brusque civility. He agreed to the shakedown without a moment’s pause. It astonished me.
I waited. Mayor Fletch was due momentarily. My broken nose was cosmetically masked and showed no sign of recent fracture. I chain-smoked; I watched rubes congregate outside Grauman’s and slide their feet into movie stars’ footprints. A pretty girl led a blind man through the courtyard and helped him compare his feet to Cary Grant’s. It was heartbreakingly lovely.
A Lincoln sedan pulled to the curb, directly in front of me. The driver flashed his headlights twice—my signal. I leaned into the passenger window. Pinch me—it was Fletcher Bowron.
He looked over at me and leered. He wore Kiwanis, Moose, and Elks lodge pins, along with a Pearl Harbor mourning armband. I said, “Suite 813. Please give me a few minutes.”
Fletch gave me the high sign. I walked into the hotel, took the elevator up and let myself into the suite.
It was Brenda’s standing tryst spot. The living room and bedroom featured peeks built into wall-mounted mirrors. Camera stations stood in crawl spaces behind the walls; three people could crouch and covertly film assignations. Brenda, Elmer and Parker were behind the living room peek. I had been told to position myself sideways, eight feet from the wall. Elmer warned me that Fletch night be nervous and told me to have a stiff drink waiting.
I did a little soft-shoe and waved at the peek. Brenda yelled, “No mugging, Citizen. This ain’t no high school play.”
I laughed and walked to the bar. I poured Fletch a triple and siphoned in club soda. I smoothed my hair and heard the doorbell.
I carried the drink over and opened the door. Fletch snatched the glass and chugalugged it. I shut the door and threw the bolt.
He said, “You think I’m Fletcher Bowron, Esquire, but I’m not. That guy’s a pantywaist. The War Department’s got me traveling incognito, and I’ll admit I look a little bit like Fletch. Let me have it, sister. Tell me who you’ve got standing here.”
Fletch always worked off a script. I had my part memorized.
I said, “You’re Race Randall, the ace spy. You’ve been transporting secret documents from the Continent, and you’re all tuckered out.”
“That’s right. I’ve been monitoring the progress of the eastern-front war, and I’m starting to think we should cut a deal with Hitler while we’ve still got the chance. Those Nazi boys have got oomph, and since I’m a man with lead in my pencil, I know oomph when I see it.”
I walked to the bar and built another triple. I said, “Geopolitics fascinates me. Please tell me more.”
Race snatched the glass. He chugalugged his drink and did a little cock-’o-the-walk strut.
“Russia’s all right, if you like gruel and lezbo discus throwers, but Deutschland’s got the goods. I was there with the L.A. Trade Commission in ’38, and I say der Führer’s been getting a bum rap. The Abwehr tried to recruit me, but Race Randall’s devoted to the good old U.S. of A. You know what they say about me, don’t you, sister?”
I certainly did. “Everyone knows about you, Mr. Randall. You’ve got the biggest and the best.”
Race reeled and sloshed his bourbon. “Marlene Dietrich will attest to that, sister. We were with some of the boys at a schnitzel palace on the Goetheplatz. You know the Horst Wessel song? ‘Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen dict geschlossen! SA marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt.’ ”
We were squarely in line with the wall peek. Race killed off his drink and began goose-stepping. He goose-stepped the length of the room, three times. I stood back and watched; I heard foot scuffs along the crawl space and observed the evening’s climax before ace spy Race Randall did.
Citizens Brenda, Elmer and Bill were standing by the bedroom doorway. Race would see them the moment he turned and began goose-stepping back our way.
He goose-stepped.
He froze in mid-step.
He dropped his glass and screamed.
Brenda said, “We go back a coon’s age, Fletch. But business is business.”
Parker said, “No ‘derogatory profile.’ A closed-chambers, grand jury–sanctioned conference at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Immediate subpoenas for Preston Exley and a man named Pierce Morehouse Patchett. They may bring an attorney. I’ll be the grand jury’s ad hoc counsel.”
I said, “Race, you’ve got the biggest and the best.”
11:42 p.m.
Fletch started sobbing. Brenda mother-henned him.
We’re still pals, sweetie. I’ll still get you girls. Let’s get some coffee in you. You’ll be right as rain.
The pathos was unnerving. Parker ducked out. He elevatored downstairs. The lobby choir unnerved him. He ducked outside.
He’d parked his car off the boulevard. He brought his law texts and scrawl sheets. He jogged over and piled in.
He checked his watch. 2:00 a.m. would mark six days sober. He checked the 813 windows. Fletch boo-hoo’d. Miss Lake talked with her friends.
Parker got out his pencils and notepad. A girl walked a blind man in front of the car. He sent up a prayer for them.
Prayer gave him the idea. It densified the Bowron shakedown. Cease-and-desist was insufficient. The closed proceeding put Fletch at more risk. It upped the odds that he’d never break ranks and snitch.
The idea sidestepped The Vow. He plea-bargained God for just this one thing. Dudley’s blithe sermon convinced him to try it.
It might convince Exley and Patchett to ditch their slave-camp plans. It might instill just this much doubt in them.
Parker worked. He studied statutes. He dog-eared pages. He underlined legal points. He smoked himself hoarse. He swilled stale coffee and cogitated. He thought of Lieutenant Conville. He thought of Miss Lake.
He drove by Coulter’s yesterday. He saw a tweed skirt in the window and thought of Miss Lake. That skirt and white stockings. Miss Lake in white gloves at church.
Lieutenant Conville was taller. She wore the winter uniform now. She’d go to the khaki in springtime. It would complement her red hair.
Parker worked all night. He wrote out a series of questions and phrased them loophole tight. He drove downtown at dawn.
He cadged a cot room nap. He slept between Thad Brown and Lee Blanchard. He got up at 7:40. He cleaned up and shaved in the washroom.
Crapshoot. The county grand jury room—546.
Parker walked down. Fletch delivered. The annex was set up.
One table, five chairs. A female stenographer. The participants, plus counsel.
Bill McPherson and Preston Exley. Pierce Patchett—tall and gaunt. Counsel? Ben Siegel’s man, Sam Rummel.
The fit was tight. One small room and six people. Blasé Exley. Blasé Patchett. The DA—early-morning alert. A high-stakes shyster and early-a.m. subpoenas.
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McPherson said, “We’re all here. Let’s not pretend that it’s anything other than an inconvenience, and get to it.”
The steno rigged her device. Rummel placed three sheets of paper on the table.
“The confidentiality forms. We’ll need signatures from Mr. Exley, Mr. Patchett, and Captain Parker.”
Pens came out. Exley signed. Patchett signed. Parker signed. Rummel cleared his throat.
“Are you here as a policeman, or as a specially deputized attorney and representative of the county grand jury, Captain Parker?”
“The latter, Mr. Rummel. I’ll add that I’m legally prohibited from repeating testimony sworn here this morning to any outside agency, which includes the Los Angeles Police Department.”
McPherson tapped his watch. “Let’s get this thing going. Gentlemen, raise your right hands.”
They complied. McPherson spieled the oath.
“Do the witnesses swear that their privately sworn testimony is fully true and free of all dissembling and evasion? Does counsel swear that his queries are proffered with full knowledge of California state and Federal law, and that this inquiry is undertaken to comport with the best interest of all citizens of and within Los Angeles County? Do all parties understand that upon completion of this interview, I will decide whether or not to pursue a full-scale inquiry, and that my decision will be final and conclusively binding?”
Exley said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Patchett said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Rummel said, “I so swear, and I do.”
Parker said, “I so swear, and I do.”
The steno typed it in. Rummel cleared his throat.
“Twelve questions, Captain Parker. If my clients decline to answer, please do not comment or badger them.”
Exley and Patchett sat down. Parker sat facing them.
“All questions are directed to both Mr. Exley and Mr. Patchett. Either or both of them may answer, and they may elaborate if they wish.”
Rummel shook his head. “They do not wish to, nor will they, ‘elaborate.’ ”
McPherson straddled a chair. “Let’s move this along. We’ve got three hotshot lawyers in the room. There won’t be any hanky-panky.” Rummel sat down. Parker studied Patchett. Note his pinned eyes. Odds on drugstore hop.
